reverse stillbirth
by slire
Summary: walrider/miles. dubcon. you read that right.


**Disclaimer: **Outlast © Red Barrels

.

.

**reverse stillbirth**

.

_._

_I'm gonna die I'm gonna die I'mgonnadieI'mgonnadieI'mgonnaget_

Pulled!

upwards towards Heaven and then sent down to Hell again, up and down like a puppet. Is the Walrider playing with its food? Or is it preparing an exquisite feast? Frozen or canned or smoked or salted. Miles recalls the butcher next door, kneading, hands slick with animal fat. Miles is already bloody; a human served rare and sinewy in greasy soups and stews, using liquor to remove the aftertaste. Carcasses dangling in the shop window. Miles rolls off, the last strength leaving him. Fuck his deadlines. Fuck his critics. Fuck Murkoff. Fuck family. Fuck friends. Fuck life. And most of all fuck the nanocloud ghost god cunt, 'cos if he's gonna die he's gonna die laughing or

**SCREAMING**

because the Walrider is there again, on top of him on the floor, making his ear ring with the sheer force of its digital warped voice. Black tendrils materialize of a consistency that reminds him of condom slime, tonguing his pores and sucking up filth in an oddly

Erotic!

fashion. Another shove. Miles bars his teeth to the knowledge of what happens next, no, no, **no**, but he's exhausted and the Walrider is blazing warm and almost cosy as its half lucid form engulfs him wholly, tearing at his clothes, wanting to get

Inside!

grinding against him with not quite humanoid hips and jesus christ the Walrider presses its ugly head against—into—his and slippery tongues lolls out and slides into his mouth, throat, belly... cut it open and get it out! Miles coughs and gags._ I don't want it inside of me!_ This is so horrifying Miles' is hardening and trembling at the same time. He would cry out but his mouth's occupied with a grotesque parody of human interaction, a repulsive make out session, black drooling into his eyes, blinding him. But he's Miles fucking Upshur and he twists around, an earthworm defying death, wiggling and writhing in the hands of a god. A thin line of flesh, pink and squishy, with a swelled welt in the middle. Miles tries to stand but falls, then crawls, then wiggles, and his crusty jeans are at his ankles, yanked off, Walrider behind above around him and

Enters!

with what is too slimy gooey oozy to be a sex organ. Tendrils wrap around Miles' dick and squeeze his balls. His flesh almost **burns** through and he imagines black burn holes in his back but he doesn't care, because the Walrider is hitting the gland that makes Miles' mouth dry. It is inside his head, testing his reactions, gnawing at his ear till it bleeds. It licks up the blood again, along with mucus, spit, precum, sweat and other fluids. Making him squeaky clean, like a wild animal to its offspring. The Walrider must be playing with matches behind his back because it's so hot. Miles shoves himself against the god cock, acting like a dog in heat, and hears the thing squelch and slurp. A hundred ebon baby fists knock at his skin, seeping past infection and pus with the intent of a virus, a virus that heals—for a price. Miles doesn't give a shit if they flay gobbets off because everything's enchanted, even pain. "Fuck me," he demands, hoarse and insane, "Oh god, fuck me!" Tiny mouths at his nipples, big strong hands at his neck. He's terrified and horny, sky high and fucked. Doesn't matter how he twists and turns, the Walrider's all over him now. It's soaking up Miles' blood like a sponge.

The Walrider searches around in his rotten garbage head and finds a desire (_I want my fucking fingers back!_) to fulfil, a dark spirit / terminal disease winning its host over. Miles has seen on tv how some bugs lay eggs inside other bugs and they burst. The Walrider soothes him by bringing his fingers back, skelenton y and deformed, yes, but still fingers.

"Th—thank you," Miles sobs, and whines, and whimpers, because the Walrider is kissing him with his whole melting smoke form.

**Help you**, the voice says, dripping and drooling and hissing like Miles imagined it would've, but the scary thing is that it's a parody of his own voice, distorted and gruesome, **give up, give in, be mine!** The Walrider trembles with excitement if it's capable to feel it. **Will do anything for you**, it says, more human now, stealing from Miles' arsenal of human language. It wants to tear down Miles' last defences. And then the most horrible thing yet happens—it takes on a human form. Miles' form, to be exact, looking like a bucket of black paint has been thrown over him, eyes white white white like lamp lights. His mouth is more human—lips softer, teeth no longer daggers, hands pretty and thin as they stroke Miles' cock.

Miles sinks into the cold cold cold floor, so tired, feeling the Walrider inside his mind again. He wants this to be over. Wants to rest. Wants to sleep forever. The Walrides senses this, and denies his orgasm, controlling all Miles' senses, forcing him to be still. For someone whose entire existence resolves around the word MOVE this is torture. "N—no..."

**Will free and protect you, give in to me**

NotMiles drools as he says this, spewing motor oil or gore, smiling so wide his cheeks rip to his ears. More slime gushes out of the tear. He's planting sticky kisses and loves bites on Miles' shoulders, pushing in and out. It's too much. Wit or sarcasm can't save him now. He

Cracks!

and doesn't even have to say it. The Walrider smiles wider and nonMiles vanishes into him, but not before all of Miles' pleasure senses go on full alert and he spurts heavy onto the cold lab floor. There is a pressure in his chest like another body growing from his belly and settling right under his skin. An internal feeling of satisfaction, of safe, of home. Miles' whole world is black, black, black. Miles laughs and ink blood spills from his eyes, nose, mouth and future bullet holes.

Free.

I am free.


End file.
